


Ex-Condor through the Time Machine

by MeanScarletDeceiver



Category: The Railway Series - W. Awdry, Thomas the Tank Engine & Friends, Thomas the Tank Engine - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, and the info princeluckybug13 has been sharing about BoCo in the mag stories, in case you haven't caught the massive keyboard smashing i've done on tumblr about BoCo's backstory, it's allllll quite the ride, meaning he's my favorite kind of Sodor engine!, suffice to say that BoCo arrives with a ton of baggage, this took over my brain instead, watch this space as we begin to unpack it (:, yeah me too but whoops, you thought i was gonna update Quiet Little Island Railway?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeanScarletDeceiver/pseuds/MeanScarletDeceiver
Summary: BoCo's first day on Sodor. The not-very-happily-chosen representative of the mainland's most embarrassing diesel class is hoping to do his work and keep his head down and Not Talk. Nice low expectations, right?
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	1. The Docks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an *outline* now. So I feel confident enough to update with a new chapter! 
> 
> 1: The Docks  
> 2: The Branch Line  
> 3: Myron  
> 4: Edward  
> 5: Donald  
> 6: Wellsworth  
> 7: The Main Line  
> 8: Toby  
> 9: The Works  
> 10: Small Engines  
> 11: Bright Ideas  
> 12: The Smallest Engine

**April 1964**

From the locomotive’s point of view, it was not a notably lively harbor. A ship’s cargo was being unloaded briskly enough onto one of the docks, but the cranes were not living, and there were no engines at all—the morning’s deliveries seemed to simply be piled into growing stacks on the quay. The trucks seemed mostly to be dozing, although there was a mild ripple of interest among them, as well as the men, who were on hand to see the diesel engine lifted down onto the tracks.

It took the crane operator several times to get it right. The locomotive set his face like flint. The process wasn’t comfortable. 

He was afforded the privacy that rolling stock generally are, which meant that they talked about him, rather than to him, as they watched. 

“Damn,” said a docker. There was respect in his tone. “He’s a monster.” 

“Thought that thing was meant for our line?”

“Nah. There’s _no way_ …” 

“There is a way,” said another voice, this one crisp and interested. “He’ll run just fine on our tracks down here.” 

“Since when are you an engine-man, Dex?” 

“I was talking to Sid all about it.” Dex was gazing up at the locomotive in the air with real love. He wasn’t an engine-man and had no prospect of being one—but he was far from the only layperson on the island of Sodor to cherish such machines. “This beaut’s got five axles, you know, to divide all that weight. His class aren't hard on the rails at all.” 

“Bit hard on the eyes, maybe.” To his credit, this commenter only mumbled his remark, but others elbowed him and called him a few names, for his rudeness. 

There was some lazy, ironic applause, for the hapless crane-operator, when on the fifth attempt the diesel locomotive’s crew gave him the thumbs up, and D5702 was left on the tracks, next to the new refuelling equipment. 

“All right, then,” hollered the foreman. “Get on with it!” 

The workers dispersed, though Dex needed to be specially chivvied. He was very interested to see the locomotive crew’s doings. This was the first diesel to ever be seen at Brendam.

The preparations were quick and uninteresting. D5702 was fueled up—and felt much the better, for that, and for being on solid rails. It’s the rare engine who likes traveling by ship, and he wasn’t it. Then it was just little wiping, a little polish, a quick look and a single sign of the cross over the motor, and they got him started. 

The drivers weren’t actually expecting the motor to turn over on the first try. They laughed a bit, at a loss, for they hadn’t yet found facilities, found the freight described in their orders, or even found their bearings. They’d reckoned they would have plenty of time, while cursing at their recalcitrant engine, to tag-team in and out and do so. 

“Let’s get to it, though,” grunted the first driver. “Don’t know how long this will last, do we?” 

“Foreman’s coming now,” said the second driver, looking over expectantly. 

“Ace. Maybe he’ll point us in the direction of a guard.” 

The foreman waved on his approach. “You lot are quick! You set to get moving already, old boy? Because if so, you’re my new best mate. I need some fresh trucks.” 

D5702 froze, taken aback. He was used to requests or orders being addressed to his first driver, and was grateful when the latter stepped in. “Excuse me?” he said brusquely, coming to the right end of the cab. 

It was an awkward little moment, that came full circle as the foreman blinked, then seemed to understand what was going on. “We could use him a tick before you’re off.” 

The driver radiated skepticism and disapproval. It was so unsubtle that even his engine, who of course couldn’t see him, _felt_ it. 

5702 hesitated, but kept still quiet. On the one rail, he of course wanted to make a good impression. 

On the other rail, he did not wish to be taken advantage of, either. 

“You realize he’s not a shunter,” the driver called back, voice dry.

“Oh, he’s a big fellow, all right,” agreed the foreman, grinning at 5702 with appreciation. “But we’re in a bit of a bind here. Lend us a wheel for a turn or two, won’t you?” 

“It’s ‘lend us a bogie,’” said another man, nudging him, “I think.” 

5702 decided to speak up. He supposed the Sudrians might be making fun of the mainland men and their diesel novelty… but he did not suppose the situation would improve with more banter, and no action. 

Besides, the steady thrum of his motor gave him a little heart. He had been so afraid that it might not turn over at all. “What can I do for you, foreman?” 

“See that set of empties there? Bring ‘em over to dock one, please.” 

5702 didn’t regret it, once he heard the frank relief in the foreman’s voice. This was no set-up, but a real job, fulfilling a real need. 

His crew were inclined to grumble, within his cab, and as the second driver hopped out to spot them and to ensure they had clearance. 

But Brendam Docks had been laid out quite ambitiously—perhaps too ambitiously, to 5702’s eye—but at least everything was laid out in nice long stretches, and it was not so very awkward to slink in and out of the sidings, after all. 

Then, too, the dockers proved friendly, and buzzed indistinct appreciation for the new engine who had set straight to work after being put on the tracks. 

“God knows I love our lads,” laughed a burly laborer, “but they’d still need another two hours to get checked and oiled and up to steam, and here’s our newcomer already making himself useful, minutes from the crane!” 

“The future is diesel,” someone else joked. 

“Knock it off!” Apparently seeing no humor in it, another docker elbowed one of the offenders roughly. “They’ll take away our steamies over any proper Sodor man's dead body!” 

“Of course, Roddy,” someone else soothed. “But we do need some more locos, and no mistake.” 

“‘Specially down our way!” 

“Me, I vote we keep this one,” said another, giving 5702 a wave as he backed away. 

“They haven’t seen him fail on the tracks yet,” first driver muttered to second. Of course, no one heard—except 5702. 

Who might, otherwise, have started to feel a bit comfortable. 

They drove 5702 away before any farewells, nor even further direction, could be given, peering out the cab on the lookout for their train. “That’s the one,” said second driver. 

He hopped down to set the points, but the engine had his doubts. 

“Are those ours?” 5702 asked his driver. 

“We’re to take mixed freight, that’s the only mixed train prepared, it’s ours!” Driver spoke in mathematical tones. “Come on, Oh-Two, let’s not dawdle.” 

“Yes, sir.” 5702 thought they had really better ask. But then, he had also never felt greater reluctance to risk annoying his drivers. He was surprised they had agreed to transfer with him—they had never shown any partiality to him, nor to his class—but, for all he had never much cared for them, he was that morning almost painfully grateful for their presence. Otherwise he’d be quite alone among strangers. 

Decent, friendly strangers, so far. 

Of course, he expected worse, when he encountered another engine. 


	2. The Branch Line

It was an unbraked train, and they needed to collect their guard as they signed out of the dockyard. 5702 had very little experience with such trains, and was cautious… uneasily aware that, if he went too slow, he would be laughed at, or written up about his time, or both. 

But he understood just enough about unbraked trains to know that taking it too fast would _undoubtedly_ be worse. 

The engine’s tractive power was impressive, but his brakes were too weak to altogether keep up with it. 

For that matter, he had an endless litany of other mechanical faults. 

He was only five years old, and had not even spent all that time in full service. However, he and the rest of his Metrovick brothers had already learned the hard way, many times over, to mind their limits. 

“Take it easy, Oh-Two,” his second driver called, as they passed the up signal that allowed them onto the line. 

5702 had never needed any advice less. 

“Have a look at that semaphore signal! Reckon they run nothing but unfitted trains up here?” mused the first driver. 

“Shouldn’t wonder, ‘specially for branch line freight. This place is a bit—quaint, you know?” 

“Is ‘quaint’ another word for ‘stuck in the mid-‘30s’?” 

“Something like that,” second driver chuckled. He was peering as often out the side of the cab as he was at the gauges and track. It was not altogether unpleasant, to feel such a sense that time had frozen before the horrors of war had ever reached their homeland—and it was a sense that drew a lot of people to visit the island of Sodor. “Thought it’d be more lively, anyhow. Maybe they don’t wake up proper till eight?” 

“That would explain a thing or two.” 

5702 had only just found his rhythm when they had to stop at a signalbox.

The signalman came out to meet them. A few words of greeting and introduction were exchanged, but the signalman had something on his mind. “Tell me you took the produce.”

They had not. 

“Wasn’t on the train, was it?” challenged the first driver. 

The signalman scowled at him, and threw up his hands when the guard came up. “How did you let them leave without the produce!” 

The guard argued that he hadn’t been in possession of any special orders, not being a harbormaster; the first driver sulked a bit about being expected to arrange their own trains; the signalman simply wouldn’t let them pass without it. 

No one noticed, when the diesel was run back to the docks to fetch the trucks with the perishables, that he was leaving spots of oil behind. 

* * * 

“We have the bloomin’ produce,” said first driver, having returned to the signalbox and re-ordered their train after an absolutely infuriating amount of track-switching. He had not certified for main line diesel-electrics in order to mess about with fetching stock. “Can we get through now?” 

“Negative.” (5702 had the impression that the signalman was enjoying the effect that his placid demeanor had on the driver’s blood pressure.) “Line is tied up now with commuter trains. But they’ll soon pass.”

“Oh,” said second driver. “Is that where everyone is?” 

“Yeah. We don’t have any engines to spare, during rush hour. Hoping your lad here can change that. Here, they left your orders with me. The first job is the most urgent. This lot must get to Wellsworth by ten after. Make sure the produce gets on the Bountiful. Engine number five. Trust me, you can’t miss him. He won’t wait on you, though, and if we miss him we’ll have to send you with the perishables all the way to the main line terminus. Which no one wants to do. We can rely on you?” 

The men peered over a piece of paper unfolded into eighths. 

“Twenty-two mile line, you have here?” 

“Right.” 

“We’ll have at least an hour?” 

“And a quarter.” 

“Yeah, reckon we’ll manage.” First driver was drier than ever. “Are we likely to be held up, on the return?” 

“No worries. Only one passenger service running, by that point.” 

“Well, fine,” said first driver, “but we’ve already worked a shift-and-a-half to get this engine over here. We’re scheduled off-duty at one, so if we don’t finish all these jobs, we just don’t.” 

“… Right.” 

“We can leave our engine at the docks, yeah? And catch a train back to the main line?” 

The signalman looked bemused. “Well, you could. ‘Course, you’ve got transport of your own, right here.” 

“Not after one!” said first driver. 

“Well, our Myron runs the line once an hour. So you’ll never be stranded. Your engine’s allocated to Wellsworth, though, and won’t get any servicing down here.” 

“Oh, they spent a solid day fussing over him before they sent him off. He’ll keep a night.” 

“If another crew can be found for the afternoon,” piped up 5702, “I’d be glad to keep going.” 

The signalman’s expression had been peculiarly fixed as he spoke with the mainland drivers, but at this it relaxed into a warm smile. 

“Sorry, lad, but we’ve no other crew qualified to take you out! Never you worry.” He gave 5702 a little nod. “You and your drivers find your wheels today, and then get a good long rest. We’ll put you to work properly tomorrow! _You’ll_ see.”

5702 wasn’t exactly in need of a rest, having scarcely moved for a couple of days, until arriving at the docks. Being left the whole afternoon to watch everyone else at their jobs, no matter which end of the line he wound up on, sounded boring. 

He could have stayed home to be bored, and been considerably less lonely, too. 

—

However, there was no help for it. At least the section was soon cleared, and the signalman passed them the token. 5702 slowly roared to life as he pulled the trucks up the line. 

“A token system?” first driver demanded, to no one in particular. “A _token system?_ Jesus… who’d’a thought? H.G. Wells, bloody patron saint of Brendam…” 

5702 took no notice. He couldn’t have even if he’d wanted to, for the whirring hum that was the most wonderful part of his existence slowly but surely built up, reaching his every rivet. 

The pace was slow almost to the point of frustration, the train was annoyingly light, and he was running solo instead of multiple unit, but all this could be borne easily so long as there was nothing but glorious clear track ahead—and all for him! They did not anticipate being stopped again until they reached their destination. There might only be twenty-two miles of this feeling, but he would take it. 

Frankly, he'd never quite gotten enough of it to start being picky. 

“Let’s get a move on, then,” complained the leading truck, as they whirred slowly up the line. 

The trucks had been very quiet thus far. Most of them had never been pulled by a diesel—though this didn’t much overawe them. Sodor trucks had been trained to regard diesels as laughingstocks. But this one looked big and strong, and they had been hedging their bets. 

Still, their game of follow-the-leader was irresistible, as always. One complaint proved merely the crack in a dam. 

“Yeah!” shouted another. “Daylight’s wasting, slowpoke.” 

“Some of us back here are carryin’ foodstuffs! It’ll go off, at this rate.” 

“Phew! I smell it already!” 

“I think it’s as fast as he can go,” said another, singsong, and most of the train burst into sniggers. 

Once it had died down, but before they could catch their next wind, 5702 growled a warning. 

“Oh, my kind gets up a nice turn of speed,” he said, each word deliberate. “But I promise I won’t use it on you… _**if** you behave_.” 

For a thundering, rolling moment—the precipice. Nothing but the slow and steady thrum of the train. Things could easily tip one way, or the other. 

But trucks, while not noted for their intelligence, are very good at sizing up an engine. It’s half their business in life, to intuit the difference between one that is bluffing, and one that has roughed up some of their own before… and wouldn’t half mind a chance to do it again. 

They kept their silence. 

5702 gave a little growl of triumph, sounded his deep horn, and forged on. 

It was a grey overcast morning. The rural line was not exactly eventful, but then 5702 didn’t want any events just then. It was unfamiliar terrain, yet it could have been a dozen routes back in Cumbria, no more modern and no less. They passed a small city and a castle and endless, uninteresting fields. But what mattered to the engine most was the feeling of the rails, and they were firm and true. 

“What’s our time?” he asked his drivers, presently. It was during a moment when the perfect spell of the run had imperceptibly weakened, but he didn’t take heed. 

“Thirty-five minutes still,” said first driver. “No worries. Steady on!” 

They took a broad, sloping curve that should have presented no problems. 

And yet 5702 was not fated to complete it. Not under his own power.

All at once, with a series of quick jolting hiccups, the engine lost all breath, all strength, nearly all consciousness. 

“ _Oh!_ ” 

At the sudden slow-down, one truck after another rammed into his buffers, bursting into a cacophony of shrieks and outrage. No one paid them any mind. Their momentum pushed the engine through the curve, which, had it been any tighter, would have derailed the train. 

First driver, a swear between his teeth, pumped the injector rapidly. “C’mon—c’mon! Dammit, not _now!_ ” 

5702’s world became groaning inertia, flashes of light, and an odd dull ache deep in his system, where neither he nor his crew could reach. 

“Stop,” he grunted, though, as usual, never really sure whether or not he got out the plea, or whether it only reverberated somewhere in his mechanical soul. Sometimes his drivers responded; sometimes they didn’t. 

But he knew from experience that, if his motor didn’t revive under the first forced re-start, repeated attempts brought nothing but pain for him, and frustration for everyone. 

Absent any power, they screeched half a mile to a halt. All the driver’s frantic efforts had done nothing but flood the motor with fuel, and the engine disappeared into a mighty cloud of dark grey smoke. 

Waving it from their stinging eyes and covering their mouth and nose with their elbows, the drivers stood by to ensure that the train had truly come to a stop. They applied and double-checked all brakes before gratefully bailing from the cab and into the open air up-line. 

It took 5702 half a moment to come blearily to. 

When he heard the trucks scolding and chattering, he reckoned he’d been better off unconscious. Driver only eyed him with weary resignation. 

“Well, this may be a new record, mate. Even for your lot.” 


	3. Myron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an *outline* now. So I feel confident enough to update with a new chapter!
> 
> 1: The Docks  
> 2: The Branch Line  
> 3: Myron  
> 4: Edward  
> 5: Donald  
> 6: Wellsworth  
> 7: The Main Line  
> 8: Toby  
> 9: The Works  
> 10: Small Engines  
> 11: Bright Ideas  
> 12: The Smallest Engine

5702 only closed his eyes again, accepting the driver's sarcasm as his due... but not apologizing. 

He would have been loath in any case to apologize for something that he knew he could not help. But then, too, he had learned that nothing he could say would make any difference. 

So he didn’t. He withdrew into stillness and silence, and waited for the too-sharp absence of electricity to lose its sting. 

They weren’t moving, of course. 

There were lucky times, when a Metrovick Co-Bo's motor went off, but they could struggle on, though with a sickly noise and such fantastic and opaque billows of smoke that they were all inevitably mocked as indistinguishable from steam engines.

This was one of the unlucky times. When it died all at once, there was nothing to be done but to secure the tail of their train, and to send off the second driver to call for help. The driver retreated to the brakevan, leaving 5702 alone with thoughts that he had tried again and again to drive clear from his mind. 

It had been a little easier to do, once he had left Barrow, and specifically his brothers. _They_ were all thinking it, and therefore it had been quite unavoidable for him. 

They were, indeed, more individualized these days, than once they had been. Back in their bright and new days—when they had been in charge of their beloved Condor Express—the twenty members of his class, designed for multiple unit operation, had been interchangeable, not only mechanically but in nature. They themselves saw no distinctions among them and were collectively offended if anyone claimed to discern small differences in their demeanors or abilities. 

That had changed. A lot had happened in those few short years—to the Metrovicks, and to the national railway as a whole. But the class was still extraordinarily close-knit, and 5702 had been able to cut himself off from the general cloud of worry and wondering only once he had been several miles out to sea. 

Much though he felt shorn and driftless, there had been comfort in that, too—being at last able to secure his own thoughts, and to lock out the question… the question that had hung over them all, from the moment the orders for his transfer had been come in. 

The new sights and sounds had helped, too, while finally getting to work had been the full cure. 

But now. 

Here he was. Alone with The Question. 

_Why the North Western region?_

The Sudrian rail system was steam. Everyone knew that. 

If London had gotten serious about modernizing this island, they wouldn’t have sent in one unreliable diesel-electric. No, Sodor had requested the trial themselves. 

5702 had been trying to keep the question out of his mind—there was no use in fretting or seething over it. But now that there was nothing at all to do but to try to ride out the dulling ache where his motor lay still, and the question loomed larger than ever. 

Why had they asked him here, really? 

There were literally thousands of useful steam engines recently or soon-to-be withdrawn—more steam engines than the cutters could handle. They could be bought cheaply, and God knew that 5702 would not have begrudged one of them his spot. 

Instead, they had gone for a diesel with a service record that could most charitably be described as middling. 

If they had wanted to invest in an impressive piece of modern technology, they must be very, very obtuse indeed, to imagine they had gotten it with a Metrovick Co-Bo. 

5702 could only assume that he was there as a goat, to make the rather famous North Western steam engines look all the better. Nothing else really made sense. 

On the bright side, it would be the first time in his life that he had really succeeded in the role he was wanted for. 

Some might have called such thinking paranoid. But if they had lived the five years that the Metrovicks had, they should not have been so quick to regard the idea as melodramatic. Yard politics on the mainland were fierce, dire, and subtle. 5702 saw no reason to expect better here, where he was bereft of any allies—even, it seemed, of any more than just the single crew. 

Who were heading up to his front cab now. “Not our ride,” explained second driver, at the sound of a round-toned whistle. “He’s here to collect the produce.” 

Coming towards them was a maroon-colored tank engine with gold accents, running light. Despite bearing letters indicating that it was North Western, 5702’s first impression was _Eastern region_ : stocky build, round-topped firebox, three cylinders. He supposed that, like himself, Sodor imported all their engines from elsewhere. 

It was certainly on the robust side for a tank engine, yet gave off the impression of being quite small and insubstantial indeed. 

And that was even before it laid eyes on 5702.

With something that sounded, for a steam engine, _remarkably_ like ‘bleep!’, the tank gave one strangled last little cough of smoke from its funnel, and then its fire appeared to all but die out. 

5702 could have sworn he heard a curse within the other engine’s cab, from which the driver leaned out at a jaunty and even alarming angle that almost defied gravity. 

“Hullo,” he called. “Excuse Myron, here. He’s not much of a talker—and he's never seen a diesel before.” 

“I see,” said 5702. Mildly. He would never dare cheek off a driver… tempted though he might have been. 

“I imagine most of your lot here haven’t?” his first driver called back, his irony far less veiled. 

The driver, unseen by his engine, made a gesture indicating that before them was a rather _special_ case, and that Myron’s nervous nature was as atypical on the North Western as it would be on any railway. “Give us some credit. Sodor does have a junction with the mainland, you know! But we’re strictly branch line, us and Myron. C’mon, lad!” he could be heard to say, even as he hauled himself back within the cab. “Look lively, now, or we’ll be late for our train!” 

With another few coughs, and visibly wobbly wheels, the tank engine managed to get moving. Finding a switch, engine and crew retrieved not only the perishables but a very respectable portion of 5702’s whole train, shunted 5702 and the rest of the trucks to an emergency siding, and, after a tiresome number of track-switching maneuvers (it was a two-track line), were finally on their way, looking rather harried and anxious about their time. 

“Sit tight!” advised the guard, giving them a wave in which the cheer might well have been sarcastic. 

Sit tight they did. 

They sat tight for _hours_. 

The drivers grumbled indistinctly. Bored, not wishing to hear it, and tired after his sleepless night, 5702 wound up dozing. He thought it was only lightly, but without his motor idling he could sleep rather more deeply than usual, and at least one train rushed by and took him so by surprise that he didn’t properly wake up until it was halfway passed. He was aware that silent Myron came by backwards with a rake of two coaches as well, whistling weakly, and still not daring to look at the great engine. 

He was pretty sure that, after three or four hours of this, most of the commuters on the entire line had seen the failed new diesel. 

Ah well. It wasn’t like he was unused to embarrassment. 

Besides, the one silver lining in this rather piston-wracking assignment was that he had been informed that he wanted here as a goods engine—so it didn’t really matter much what the passengers thought of him. He didn’t care for _them_ at the best of times. When he and his brothers had been brand-new (not so very long ago) they had often heard unchecked complaints and criticisms at every platform about the awkward, unsightly new diesels. 

That talk had died down a bit, since. But 5702 would have fully expected to hear it all over again, if subjected to passenger duties in this backwards region, where steam remained so loved. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I am 100% honest, my OC Myron—at least one more engine, preferably one who can take push-pull trains, just seemed to be *required* to run the Brendam line properly—is functioning in this fic as a bit of a foil to Bill and Ben (who are Sirs Not Appearing in This Fic, sorry. I'm going to throw a whole lot of crap at BoCo on his first day, but we'll spare him *that*).


	4. Edward

Finally, hours after they'd been left, they heard a bright, high whistle, and not from an engine that was pounding by. This one slowed to a halt behind 5702, shunting a fresh brakevan to the rear of the train. 

“Hullo!” the unseen engine called. “You must be tired of waiting.” 

5702 only sounded his horn in acknowledgment. Anything less would have been rudeness… though he was quite alert for the potential double meaning in his rescuer’s words. 

“Oh, Myron took most of it,” the new guard said in satisfaction. “Good lad.” 

“Yes indeed,” said another voice, presumably the steam engine’s driver. “Now we have _options_. C’mon, Stan, let’s hop on up and meet the new lot.” 

Once the new arrival had pulled up level to 5702’s buffers, the crews exchanged greetings, while the engines eyed each other frankly. Neither had ever seen one quite like the other. 

5702 was briefly astounded. He’d known, of course, that Sodor _was_ Steam, and he had known plenty of steam engines on the mainland—many more several years ago than now, for they were being withdrawn rapidly. But not even when he’d been new had he seen an engine like this on the rails—only in vintage posters. He looked to the diesel like no one quite so much as City of Truro. This small-boilered blue tender engine had some modifications, most notably his Eastern-style cab and his cleaner, less fussy lines, that made him look a bit less quaint, and a bit readier to work a modern railway. 

But he still looked to 5702 like an engine that must be kept around strictly for holidays and excursions. 

“Thank you for coming,” the diesel muttered, briefly embarrassed. He had put in the long hours steadily fuming, hardening his heart against what seemed a deliberate slight. He still, in fact, supposed it to be so. Steam engines and steam men always considered it a fine joke when one of theirs had to help a revolutionary diesel. 5702 reckoned the joke got even better if the engine they dispatched was the oldest and weakest they had. 

Still, he had as yet no evidence that the old engine had _asked_ for the assignment, or was in on the joke. And if the delay had been that he needed to be steamed up from cold, on an ordinary sort of weekday, then 5702 supposed that it couldn’t be helped. 

“That's all right. We’re thankful _you’ve_ come, for we’re rather short-wheeled ‘round here, as you’ve seen.” 

5702 was spared having to answer, for his second driver spoke up, with livelier interest in his voice than his engine had ever heard before. 5702 couldn’t help but be jealous, albeit the steam engine crew was also saying hullo to him. (Well, the driver was. The fireman whistled, then rather stared.) But 5702’s own drivers were never so friendly as this. “You must be Edward!” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I’m under orders from my kids to say hello. They love the books.” 

“Oh, please tell them hello from me.” The engine from the books sounded quite used to this. “And that they must come themselves and visit us soon.” 

The guard had a radio, with which he was checking in with Signal. “Right,” he said, covering it, as he conferred with the others. “Do we need to request help, then?” 

“Have the perishables been sent off?” 

“Yes, Myron was able to pass them to James in time.” 

“Oh, then we’ve got this,” said Edward’s driver. “But hang on, Stan; let’s get the rest of our plan straight, before looping in Signal. Can S.C.C. spare us an engine today?” 

“Yes, but only Bill.” 

“Good,” laughed the fireman. “We don’t want both!” 

“Well, that’s all right, then,” said the driver briskly. “We’ll get our new colleagues to the main line—you’ll have to wait a bit in the yard, I’m afraid; we have a banking job at twelve til, but after that we’ll take you the rest of the way, to the Works. Then”—turning back to his own crowd—“we’ll get on back to Wellsworth. If Bill brings the deliveries up for us, then we can just run the goods main line, all the rest of the afternoon. Not too bad.” 

“What about Douglas and Gordon’s trains?” asked Edward. 

“I suppose we’ll have to be back for the Nor’wester.” The driver sounded resigned. “We should have time for one more delivery between that and our fast train. But Douglas will be our ask—otherwise we’ll scarcely move a thing from that yard all day. Tell Signal to tell them they’ll have to either find another banker, or break their lot in two.” 

“Phew.” The fireman mopped his brow, a little over-theatrically. “You’re sure, Charlie?” 

“Sure am. I don’t see them lining up to help us with our backlog!” 

The fireman pulled a hang-dog expression. “I _meant_ that you’ve just planned quite the busy day.” 

“Aren’t they all, though,” said Edward happily, while the driver gave an unapologetic shrug. 

5702 was taken aback by all this, and he wasn’t sure that this entire conversation wasn’t an elaborate ploy to pull his own wheel. He certainly had some doubts as to whether the slight, ancient engine could even move him and his train. 

“He isn’t _really_ main line certified?” he murmured to his driver, under the commotion of the other engine pulling ahead to the next switch. 

Edward’s slightly wicked whistle took him by surprise. “My hearing’s fine, too!” 

5702 scrunched his eyes shut. That was precisely the sort of clueless, fresh-from-the-factory slip-up that could easily stir up world war three, on the mainland rails. 

Of course, _there_ it was pretty safe, to disrespect a steam engine, who these days were even lower in the pecking order than the Metrovicks—though he still shouldn't have liked to do it.

But _here?_

5702 winced at his own idiocy. 

The old engine did indeed strain for a bit at their start, but they were soon off. The first leg of their journey took mere minutes, after that. It seemed that 5702 had at least almost cleared the branch line. But that was such a low bar, for a locomotive who had been designed for stopless ten-hour runs, that there was not the slightest bit of comfort in this… except, perhaps, that his failure would have been witnessed firsthand by far more people and engines, had it occurred out on the main line. 

Though then there might have been an engine available to fetch him sooner. 

Might have been more interesting scenery to while away the time, too. 


End file.
